KT replied. "Best blueberry in Tidewater. If we think Ingleside a gold mine, this could be our Fort Knox."
Though reluctant, Dynamo couldn't lose sight of the $800-$900 daily gross profit he made distributing crack cocaine, compared to a likely $1,500 daily net profit distributing marijuana. Which over time would only increase.
Both men turned towards two urban-clad, blue bandanas adorn men strolling into the courtyard.
KT stood with the half-smoked cigarillo perched between his lips. Cold steel nestled against the small of his back, he met the men halfway into the courtyard. "Meatball... Ski-Beau, what's good, fellas?"
Meatball stood silent.
Ski-Beau led KT several steps away and replied. "Insane Gangsta Crip gave ya enough time to think it over. I can't keep stalling em out."
"You a OG-Loc, so the lil locs still follow yo lead, right?"
“Don't take it there, people. The last thing IGC wanna do is put pressure on the hood but the hood Crip. Almost everybody either in, looking to be quoted in, or took they bizness elsewhere, except a few stragglers.” He eyed KT earnestly. “I'm coming to ya in peace, cause Dynamo and Big Suge a fall in line if ya just do it. No getting quoted in. You can just walk through the door. You’ll have a seat at the table. Your word a mean something."
Exasperated, KT just shook his head. "Why would you want somebody to ride when you know he not feeling that gang shit? All that'll do is cause problems. Let it fester too long. That shit a be yawl cancer."
"So ya saying you'll be cancer fa IGC?"
"If I decided to join, I'll be looking to put us on top, on all levels. The thing is, I'm not looking to join. I can rise without all the shit that comes with saluting a flag."
Ski-Beau’s brow tightening, he took a deep breath then replied. "Insane Gangsta Crip consolidating. So, one way or another, the hood will be Crip nation. All of it. Those who not wit it can just leave."
Dynamo stormed over and interjected. "We getting tired of yawl Crip niggaz pushing up on some rah-rah shit! Far as I'm concerned, yawl can't take no for an answer. Let's burn this bitch down to the ground!"
Ski-Beau waved off a war-primed Meatball. He closed the distance between him & Dynamo and said. "We flame the ratchets. Nobody eats. So why not calm down and look at the benefits. Think it over and get back at us."
"We been thinking... shit still the same. Yawl do yawl, we do us. That's too easy for yawl gangstas. We can get to the real bizness."
KT stepped between the two men. Though addressing Ski-Beau, he kept a close watch on Meatball, off to the side, his left hand inside his hooded sweater. "Look, Ski-Beau, you the OG-Loc out here, so the choice yours. We can all keep making this bread or nobody eat. Cause if you think Insane Gangsta Crip can extort our loyalty, all you’re gonna do is get everybody fucked up. So, if you bout yo paper, be about it. Cause like it or not, you can't go to war and get rich."
An incensed Dynamo chimed in. "The locs you think insane, be the same locs signing statements to Poe-9 to save they ass. Everybody who waves that flag ain't bout that life, and yawl knows it."
Ski-Beau gave both men a fist pound. "I hope ya see we all family, trying to look-out for family. We don't stick together. Outsiders see all our shit right for the taking."
Dynamo, watching the two Insane Gangsta Crips saunter from the courtyard down the Trice Terrace sidewalk, said. "Look, KT, somebody cap getting twisted. Let’s make damn sure it ain't us."
KT stared into the night sky. He pondered whether going to war with IGC was worth the inherent danger. More so, given his decision to forego his Ingleside crack distribution. If their leaving was a win-win for both sides, why the reluctance to do so?
KT peered down the street just as a crème colored Infiniti G35 coupe turned onto Trice Terrace. He noticed the lone, light-complexioned driver. "Dynamo, is that that cat Sea Breeze you were talking about?"
"Damn sure is."
Both men watched the sedan pull alongside Meatball & Ski-Beau. The passenger window descending, a brief conversation was had. The Infiniti G35 coupe raced from Trice Terrace, onto Seay Avenue, out of the Ingleside area.
KT’s attention was diverted by an over-anxious customer. He took a moment to off-load his last fifteen nickel baggies for $50. A dark blue Grand Marquise turned onto the street. A white hockey-masked figure leaned out of the front passenger window. Moments later, a burst of thunder erupted into the night.
KT standing along the sidewalk with the cocaine customer, was showered with bullets. The tremendous force of annihilation slammed him to the ground. Beneath the blood-gurgling, bullet-riddled crack addict, KT held onto him as rounds exploded all around him. He scrambled from beneath the man and scurried in avoidance of more fully automatic hellfire. Bullets kicking up dirt, nipping at his heels, he dove behind the courtyard tree.
Dynamo fired upon the sedan with his 9mm Beretta.
KT crouched behind the tree, unleashed 40-caliber Glock hellfire upon the sedan.
Return fire slamming into the sedan exterior, the masked gunman unleashed the full power of an Israeli Uzi machine pistol. His swarm of 9mm dum-dums spun his target around violently.
Rounds slamming into the tree, splintered bark sliced into KT’s flesh. Watching his friend collapse, he ran from behind the tree. Unleashing more 40-caliber return fire, he dragged Dynamo back behind the tree. His right hand against his wounded friend's chest, his palm was soaked in blood. "Ace, please just say something!"
Dynamo, with blood spilling from his mouth, winced agonizingly. "Get, my... don’t lea...."
The fleeing Grand Marquise accelerated down Trice Terrace past Ski-Beau & Meatball. KT exchanged his empty magazine clip then retrieved Dynamo's 9mm Beretta. “Ace, I gotta get rid of these.''
Dynamo just curled into an obliterated knot.
At a full sprint, KT ran through the rear of the courtyard. Leaving Trice Terrace, he dashed around the back of a Scott Street apartment building. Down the sidewalk, he ran towards the nearby Trant Avenue street corner intersection. He flung Dynamo's handgun into the sewer. With his keys in hand, KT ran into the Trant Avenue parking area.
He leaped behind his Nissan Pathfinder steering wheel. Just as he ignited the engine, something emerged in his side-view mirror. KT threw his vehicle into drive and floored the accelerator. His tires clawing asphalt, thunder roaring, his windows exploded. Rounds showering the interior, KT ducked. Barely able to see above the steering wheel, with bullets slamming into everything, he propelled his Nissan Pathfinder up the curb into the grass. KT’s left side was impacted by the force of oblivion. A white hockey-masked gunman fired upon the fleeing SUV.
KT drove on the sidewalk, around the apartment building, back onto Scott Street. Just as he drove his vehicle back onto the street, the once fleeing Grand Marquise barreled into his bullet-riddled Nissan Pathfinder driver side. Jolted by the impact, KT couldn't prevent his SUV from clipping a parked station wagon then cartwheeling onto the opposite Scott Street curb.
He was thrown about the bullet-riddled interior. Disoriented, his body felt twice as heavy. KT forced the crushed driver door open and spilled from the vehicle onto the curb. Several white hockey-masked gunmen climbed out of the wrecked Grand Marquise. A sporadic fusillade of thunder roared into the war-ravaged night. Metal collapsing and fiberglass splintering, the glass exploded all around him. Rounds peppering his wrecked Nissan Pathfinder, KT drew his forty caliber Glock. Blood ran down his face, blurring his vision. He aimed at the first thing moving. The roaring, recoiling handgun repeatedly slammed against his weakened left hand. He fought to keep the weapon steady.
A forty-caliber hollow-point onslaught obliterated a white hockey-masked gunman was slammed upon the threshold of oblivion. Horrifying screams and fierce gunfire serenaded two bystanders fleeing the mayhem.
KT, with blood spewing from his left arm, fled. Gunfire pursuing him between two parked cars, he staggered across the street. Staying low, he ran alongside the parked vehicles.
&nb
sp; Sirens blared in the rapidly declining distance. As deadly flesh seekers whizzed past his ears, KT dove to the ground. He rolled onto his back and fired upon two hockey-masked gunmen charging his position. Stalling their advance, he staggered back to his feet and looked at his handgun. The hammer-slide was cocked back—the last of his final magazine clip ran dry.
KT was winded. His left side, seemingly on fire, he kneeled alongside a parked car. Gunfire erupting, rounds slammed into the parked car near his face. KT ran beside a row of parked vehicles. Just as he began to cross the street, an accelerated engine roared gloriously. KT raised his empty handgun at his pursuers when a cherry red Chevy Camaro comes to a screeching halt beside him.
The passenger door flung open from behind the wheel, Yolanda screamed. "Get yo ass in!"
KT dove into the passenger seat and said, "We gotta scope Dynamo."
Yolanda propelled her Chevy Camaro around the Scott Street/Seay Avenue corner. Fast approaching Trice Terrace, flashing blue & white lights ricocheted against the night. The men’s Trice Terrace courtyard distribution hub was cordoned off by police cruisers. Yolanda drove her wounded friend out of the battle ruined Ingleside, Norfolk area.
Let us not be deceived, we are today in the midst of a cold war
-Bernard M. Baruch 1870-1965
CHAPTER 10
Beware of a half-truth.
You may have gotten hold of the wrong half
-Lord Alfred Tennyson 1809-1892
DePaul Medical Center
Grandby Street, Norfolk
3:22 am following early morning
KT was helped into the seated position. Groggily, he sat on top of a padded table. Adorning a gray paper gown and dirty tube socks, he surveyed his well-lit surroundings. Electronic monitors aligned the nearby left wall. A glass medicine cabinet aligned the right wall. Blood-soiled utensils and several sponges were on a silver tray. He noticed an angel at his side. "Where am I?"
Keisha cradled his right hand against her cheek. "Baby, you were shot. I was so worried about you."
KT’s limbs aching; he was racked with exhaustion. His left arm was in a sling. KT noticed a thick bandage was wrapped around his left bicep. The slightest movement sent an excruciating, five-alarm inferno racing throughout his central nervous system. Again, he asked. "Where am I?”
"DePaul Medical."
"What time is it?"
“Almost 3:30."
KT mentally assessed what transpired several hours ago. He staggered from atop the table and said, "My ace got hit up. Please tell me, he’s not___."
A stern, authoritative voice interjected. "That's exactly what I'm here to uncover." Detective Swanson held the door open. "Ms. Davis, please excuse us." “Dynamo came out of surgery a few hours ago. They have him in the ICU ward." Keisha threw her arms around his neck. Squeezing him with all she had, she whimpered. "Some woman called me from your phone. All she kept saying was that you were here... Baby, what happened?"
Keisha froze with the bewilderment of the strange law enforcer addressing her by her last name. Once KT nodded, she gladly excused herself.
Detective Swanson closed the door behind her and said. "Khalid Garrison, you stepped in it this time." He held KT's right hand to his nose. As suspected, he was greeted by the pungent waft of industrial-strength ammonia. “Doctors said you were brought into the emergency ward bleeding like a stuffed turkey, smelling like Clorox... and we both know why. The bleeding courtesy of your gunfight on Ingleside's Trice Terrace that spilled along Trant Avenue and Scott Street.” The detective chuckled. “I gotta hand it to you, you thought on your feet. The ammonia distorts any gun-powder residual examination. I admit, given how fast all hell broke loose, you did think fast. Don't worry though, we confiscated your clothing. So, if you fired a weapon, we'll find trace evidence. And before you start lying, eyewitnesses already attest to you firing a weapon. A dark semi-automatic at that."
KT replied. "Don't waste my time or yours asking me shit. All I know is, I heard gunshots, felt my left side go limp, then I blacked out."
“Where did the ammonia come in?"
“For all I know, the people here did it. Probably to clean the blood off me, I guess."
“Maybe it was the woman your pretty girlfriend alluded to. Either way, hospital security cameras will tell us who brought you here. In the least, they face obstruction charges."
“Whoever brought me here saved my life. How the fuck is that obstruction?”
“Who was it?”
“Didn’t I tell you I blacked out?”
“Then its obstruction. At least until I say so.” Detective Swanson took a seat in the nearby chair. His legs crossed. Opening his notepad, he relayed what his investigation uncovered thus far.
Authorities learned Khalid Nikita 'KT' Garrison and Devon 'Dynamo' Wallace was inside their Trice Terrace courtyard conducting illegal business. The men were in the company of a now-deceased, bullet-riddled, still, unidentified man when a lone gunman opened fire from a dark blue Grand Marquise sedan. The same Grand Marquise was found wrecked and abandoned along Scott Street. Devon Wallace was struck twice in the chest. His injuries severe; he is currently listed in critical but stable condition. Eyewitnesses attest to Khalid Garrison running from the bullet-riddled Trice Terrace courtyard rear towards the Scott Street/Trant Avenue street corner.
Detective Swanson closed his notepad closed and snickered derisively. "Garrison, you blacks are a foolish species, especially you street niggers. Shooting at everything not nailed down, and for what... some property you'll never own. Every other race gets rich, while you niggers get a prison or an early grave."
An enraged KT blasted. "Stupid is what stupid says... you infidel, white trashy, porky piglet, dick face cracker!"
“At least I don't have a fucked up arm and people trying to kill me... Play Hogan's Hero with the only person trying to keep you alive. But when you leave here, you're still a dead man."
“Like yo racist ass, give a damn."
“At least you know I don't give a damn. Honestly, I hope those shooters kill you. That way, you'll be piss-ant food, and they'll be lifers or vice versa. Either way, two birds, one cage or grave... And I resent the implications that I'm a racist. Anger can sometimes be a viable emotion. Calling you a nigger got you to take notice." Detective Swanson again opened his notepad and flipped to a new page. "Your official statement, please."
KT replied. "I was chilling smoking a blunt."
"Marijuana?"
"Nawh bitch, lima beans! Anyway, I was smoking a blunt when I heard gunshots. Something felt like a Mach truck hit my left side, then I blacked out." KT acknowledged his injured left arm. "This where the Mach truck hit me."
Detective Swanson asked him. "What about Devon Wallace? What was he doing leading up to the gunfire?"
“Ask him. Better yet, ask our lawyer."
“If you were under arrest or being interrogated, I would. It’s still unclear. However, evidence suggests someone was shot along Scott Street. Still, no bodies were found, nor was anyone admitted to any hospital in the region with an apparent gunshot wound—you and Devon Wallace notwithstanding. As we speak, the wrecked Grand Marquise and Nissan Pathfinder are both being processed. You're welcome to my badge and pension if your fingerprints are not found all over the Nissan."
KT sucked his teeth. "Swanson get serious, the truck registered to me. So, stop with the pussy ass cop ploys, cause a blind man can see yo ass looking for inconsistencies."
“You said you were shot then blacked out. That's an inconsistency." Detective Swanson countered.
“Did I say where I was shot or when I finally did black-out?"
“Tell me about Insane Gangsta Crip. Would this shooting be because you still haven't decided to join the neighborhood's illustrious bridge club?"
Though KT was floored by how much this pompous homicide detective knew, he held firm. “When you ready to ask me a real question, give me a head’s up so my lawyer can be there."
; Detective Swanson stalled his suspect’s departure. "Garrison, several innocent people had their vehicles wrecked, in addition to the residential doors and windows hit with gunfire. So, tell me, smart-Aleck, how do you think those bystanders feel about the violence you bestowed upon their fair community? Not to mention the financial hardship of repairing or replacing everything damaged by you all's foolishness."
KT retorted. "If I did all this, where the handcuffs? And I still haven't heard my Miranda Rights."
"Preliminary evidence suggests you and Devon Wallace were intended victims. The keyword is preliminary. But I can almost guarantee felony charges will be forthcoming. Once we find the two handguns you tossed, you'll be charged with everything." Detective Swanson appreciated his suspect's inability to conceal his shock. "That's right, Garrison, we know you ran from that courtyard so you could get rid of you and Devon Wallace's firearms. The same reason why you doused your arms in ammonia. There are only a few places one could toss a weapon on such short notice. We have a team searching those areas."
KT left the homicide detective inside the room and trekked down the corridor. He found Keisha at the nurse's station. He was told he would have to wait until 9 am before any visitors would be allowed. He was given additional bandages, a medical pamphlet explaining treatment methods, prescriptions for antibiotics & some non-narcotic painkillers. With a manila envelope containing his possessions, KT allowed Keisha to help him walk away.
Through the DePaul Medical Center double doors, KT was led to a purple Pontiac Grand Prix. Helped into the passenger seat, he reclined the backrest. He gave Keisha directions then settled into being driven into a gloomy, uncertain early morning.
∗
Waverly Way
Villa Heights, Norfolk
15 minutes later
Keisha pulled her Pontiac Grand Prix along the Waverly Way, Villa Heights curb, then helped KT from the vehicle. She was privy to his guilt of being forced to leave a critically wounded Dynamo behind. Keisha aided his slow, careful trek to his apartment. Given his keys, she helped him inside.
One Hustler's World Page 9